To read The Monster in Your Closet just once is to become a fan. Deborah Bryan‘s words are something different: smooth like a drink of water just when you need it, raw and honest, dirt and bones types of lessons that you know you need to hear. She is fun and serious, spiritual and silly. Quite simply she’s gah-ooood, y’all.
I had the pleasure of writing for Deborah’s FTIAT Series last year, an amazing collection of gratitude she shared across the blogisphere. It makes my heart happy to share her Tiny Spark today, a look at a priceless gift given when it’s needed most.
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She is finally at peace.
From the moment I read those words in a text message, I knew they were true. My mom would never know the pain of abuse, mental illness or physical illness ever again.
Smiles & Scars
My mom was at peace, but I was not. I saw the totality of her losses as part of a balance sheet abysmally lacking in positives. I thought of that balance sheet in passing as my siblings and I prepared for our mom’s burial and memorial, and as we made a concerted effort to look for the positives in her life so we could better communicate them to others.
With tasks to perform and my siblings nearby to perform them with me, I got by. Then I got on the plane back to Los Angeles, and it hit me:
Next time I returned to Oregon, it would be to a town absent my mom.
My childhood home was no longer home, but simply the house in which I’d grown up.
I would land in L.A. an orphan.
My mom was really gone.
I was distraught. Inconsolable. I felt acutely my isolation from my siblings and the places I once shared with them and my mom. Daily, I sobbed my way through two hours of drive time.
A week after I returned to L.A., I got an email from a woman named Shannon. She had found my email address from my mom’s online obituary and wanted to know if I remembered her. Thrilled, I immediately responded that she was one of the few people I did remember from my early childhood. I didn’t remember how she looked, nor how she sounded, but I remembered the feeling of her. Even saying her name aloud to myself, I remembered how my mom had spoken her name through laughter. With her, my mom had been safe, and I had been safe, too.
Shannon and I exchanged a few emails before she fell silent. Although her silence saddened me, I was grateful she’d broken the silence however briefly, for with her emails she had given me a couple of irreplaceable gifts.
One was tangible. She had sent along a few pictures of me and my siblings in our childhood days. Since my mom had destroyed almost all of our family photos in the throes of mental illness, each of the pictures Shannon sent was a piece of family history regained.
Little me
photo c/o Shannon
Her other gift was no less valuable for being intangible. By reaching out to me and evoking memories of safety and laughter otherwise lost to me, I was able to feel my mom as she existed before loss and illness slowly shaped her into not-Mom.
The feeling was not the one of crushing loss I associated with her later life, but one filled with the wordless joy of unconditional love, laughter and silliness, hope and aspiration, and tears of conspiracy instead of suffering.
Thanks to Shannon, memory of not-Mom was coupled with the warm memory of Mom. It was but a glimmer of light, and yet that glimmer kindled my understanding there would be more to come.
As I revisited Shannon’s photos frequently in the month following my mom’s death, I saw how easily twenty years could disappear in the face of loving memory. I was a thousand miles from my siblings, and years removed from the mom that had once—with her dear friend Shannon—made a livelihood from other people’s garbage, but I was eternally close to them as well. Neither distance in time nor distance in space were nearly as important as I’d thought when I’d boarded the airplane back to L.A.
When Shannon reached out to me, she bridged past and present, bringing to me a piece of my mom I’d lost. While she reached out to me as herself and for herself, I couldn’t help but hear my mom’s voice in her words, too.
It was if my mom herself held me in her arms and whispered, “This is how I want you to remember me. This is who I was. Not illness. Not loss. This.
“You can’t reach me by phone anymore, but I will always be your mother, and I will always be here with you.
“Just like this.”
You can take a person out of a picture, but never, ever out of a heart.
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What is a memory that’s helped you cope during hard times?
Upcoming Tiny Spark:
Monday, January 7th
Beautiful post.
Thank you, Victoria!
Thank you, too, Tori. I just posted the link-up, and tried to explain–very briefly–why I do see this as a joyous thing, even if it seems sad. Fingers crossed! In any case, I 110% mean what I said about you being one of the sparks that lights my way. It’s true, and I am so grateful for you, because and apart from this opportunity.
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Thank you for sharing. I do understand and I think this was something I needed to read in this moment. My mom is my hero, my idol, my role model and all that I wanted to be. But today she is not the woman I remember. I see glimmers of her but she very much is not-Mom. I have been struggling lately with the simple desire to have my mom back, the woman I grew up with. This post reminds me to see that the mom I remember is still there inside her and I. Instead of mourning I need to remember daily and shower her with love, not judgement or anger. Today you were my messenger, delivering something so vital and changing my train of thought. Today you were my tiny spark. Thank you.
That is a terrible, hard place to be. It’s human to miss what you can’t find in someone you love dearly, so I hope you don’t feel too guilty about feeling what you do when you do–from mourning, to anger, to frustration, even to guilt. I hope you’ll keep doing what you can, practically and emotionally, for her while also extending the same courtesy to yourself.
I wish I could sit down and chat about this with you instead of just typing out this comment and trying to find words to say what’s impossible to say. Just know that, no matter how imperfect my words, what I really mean is . . . it doesn’t sound like you’re doing it wrong at all. I’m not sure what “right” is, honestly, but I do know that the level of care and reflection evidenced in your comment means everything.
The summer my mom really snapped, I listened to “Let it Be” endlessly. That was my attempt to remind myself that while there were some things I could change, some things–many more, I’d say–I had to let be (with love) and hope for better tidings with time.
If you ever need to talk, please feel free to email me, Angie. Whether or not you do, I hope the best for you and send much love.
Amazing how Shannon’s photos came at just the right time to remind you that yes, your mom is still your mom and always will be. I often have to remind myself that my dad was a person with a past long before he had his kids. It helps to talk with people that knew him then and to learn more about the man I loved so dearly, it brings me that much closer to him even now. Thanks Deb and thank you Tori for this series.
♥ I loved your recent post about your dad, Darla. I just reread it and wanted to link it here for anyone who hasn’t read it yet: Go On, Open It.
I got so used to remembering not-Mom that it was a gift to remember Mom, and that one of my favorite things about her was how off the wall she was. (Think Thunder Thighs, hee.)
In one of her letters, Shannon wrote: One thing she and I shared was the propensity to take a negative situation and at least get a good story out of it. Often misunderstood as taking serious situations too lightly, it at least allowed us a break from the heaviness. The pictures and words like these reminded me that I was boiling a complex person down to one part of her existence.
Aaaaand it provided me another picture of my brother as a baby, which (once again) just makes me want to squeeze those chubby red cheeks!
Exactly, we all so much more than any one chunk of our lives. I am so happy you’ve re-discovered that about your darling mother, Deb. And I never tire of seeing baby pics, you looked so sweet! Thanks for the link, I couldn’t figure out why I was getting views on that post. (((hugs)))
It’s such a joy to see you over here, Deb, at Tori’s place. This series is a beautiful one! Deb, I get it, really get it–needing to remember your mom as mom before she turned into not-mom. I’m so glad that you received some childhood pictures. It makes me feel wistful . . . and it made me feel hopeful to read this.
She was so joyful! I could remember that in sequences of memory, but I couldn’t feel it, somehow . . . until I got those pictures, and Shannon’s lovely words. Those stopped coming, but the fact they stopped sure doesn’t take away the goodness that came from those she did send. ♥
As a motherless mother, I was very moved by this post. My mother’s struggle at the end of her life was very different than other parts of it, and I find myself attempting to remember those times more. Thank you for sharing your story.
“Motherless mother.” Those words resonate so deeply with me.
Thank you so much for reading, and sharing in turn.
What a beautiful story. It reminds me to reach out to others, because what doesn’t seem like a big deal to us, may be a real gift to someone else. Thank you for sharing your story and your heart.
~FringeGirl
Thank you so much!
I peeked at your comment on my phone earlier in the day. I loved it then, but you know . . . I think I love it about a hundred times more now. Amen to what you said!
One of my last posts (NYE) was about a mom who stopped and asked if I needed help in a really uncomfortable situation. It was such a small act, but it had a huge impact on how I felt about the rest of the day. Little efforts to reach out can have enormous reach.
This is so beautiful. It makes me wonder what happened in between Mom and not-Mom. This would make an excellent memoir!
Thanks for bringing it to the party!
Have fun clicking on the other links and saying hello!
I write little bits and pieces about my mom on my blog, but it never seems like enough. That’s part of why my sisters and I agreed we’d write a book about mom from each of our perspectives. I read every single journal entry I’d ever written to compile a document of all my references to my mom. The document alone was 90,000 words.
I got 12,000 words or so into writing my portion a couple years back before my just-younger sister (understandably) said she wanted to get her first novel cranked out before moving on to other projects. She’s editing the novel now, so maybe I’ll be able to un-table my portion before too long. I’m glad to know it’s there, waiting to be revisited, and I’m so glad to everyone who allowed me to share this piece of my mom today. Thank you. ♥
Lovely thoughts, Deb. How wonderful that Shannon reached out to you to bring some of the GOOD memories back into focus for you.
I couldn’t help but wonder over and over again today what my blog would have looked like if Shannon hadn’t sent that email. Would I have found the good memories the same way, on the same timeline? That email, and the couple that followed it, marked a huge turning point for me. They paved the way for where I’m at today, which is a place where it’s easy to remember all the good that preceded the sorrow.
Writing this helped me rekindle the feeling I had when I looked through those photos and read Shannon’s words. It brought me closer to mom, just as typing this comment is doing. Thank you, Peg, for making me think and smile, so often. ♥
It is always a pleasure to read your words and thoughts, Deborah
Thank you! The feeling is definitely mutual.
Stopping by from Susie’s. What a moving story! I think even those of us who knew our mothers can still relate to the need to connect with a parent, especially through our memories of childhood. It was before we had any expectations. That’s when we saw them as heroes.
Heroes is exactly right! Even my dad, who did not share nearly so many exciting or love-filled moments with me and my siblings, was a hero in my eyes when I was little. I loved certain things he did, no matter what else he also did or did not do.
In my mom’s case, I was often thankful that her drive (to see her kids succeed), humor and hope was what instilled in me the tools to survive losing Mom, dealing with not-Mom in some of her scarier moments, and then losing Mom again. Who she was in my childhood was amazing, and it would be another tragedy, I saw, to forget all of that–which shaped me–and see only what came later.
I love your comment about “heroes.” That’s exactly right. I’m glad for the letter that helped me put my hero goggles back on, and for your comment! Thank you.
You write the most beautiful stories, they are really engaging and easy to read.
I honestly love it.
Thank you.
Your mom IS beautiful.
Thank you. I hover between “was” and “is.” The last day or two, as I am lifted up by these comments, I lean strongly toward “is.”
I’ve been away from my own WordPress blog for a couple of years. School and work take up what little time I reserved for writing. But when I do come back, I make a point of visiting Tori’s blog ’cause she’s all heart and comedy. But I’m especially glad I came by today to read your post, Deborah. This is a tearful story but so beautiful. And that picture of you as a little kid is adorable.
Renee, I just did a cartwheel to see a your sweet picture and comment! I’ve missed you around the blogging world
Thank you so much, Renee! What you say about Tori’s blog is what I tried to say in my link-up post. Between my S.O. having a new job, my son being new to preschool and moving, I was so exhausted when I typed it up that I defaulted to an explanation of Tori’s blog that sounded much more somber than it ought have. It looks like folks did still mosey over here, though, and I’m thankful for that. I hope some of them stayed, because this is a wonderful, uplifting, community-givin’ place to be. ♥
I recognized you immediately in your little red dress. Thanks, Deb, for this beautiful post, for addressing so gracefully the love in loss, the beauty in pain, the gratitude in a life fully lived & felt.
Thank you for your beautiful comment. The first part reminds me of an exercise we did in fifth grade. Each student brought in a baby picture and we had to match the baby pictures to our peers. I was the only student in all the years of the game who every single student matched correctly to the baby picture.
The latter part reminds me that I need to order your (very much related) book in print; I was in the middle of savoring it on my phone when I lost pretty much all interest in ebooks.
This story touched me. It reminded me that God sends people into our lives when we need it most to help us cope, to get us through. For me, after my brother died I was having a particularly hard day. After he died we were pulled from all things familiar (maybe the reminders were too hard on my mom). All I remember was that on that particular day I was inconsolable. I found myself walking around my neighborhood after school. Somehow I found myself sitting on the bleachers at the baseball field across from my school, arms wrapped over my head, laid on the bleacher above me…bawling. Gymnastics practice had apparently got out…and some of the kids saw me there (I was too immersed in my own grief to know or care). One of the guys, one from my class who I dated shortly, came over, sat beside me, wrapped his arms around me and just let me cry. It was strange because we weren’t really friends, especially after an adolescent breakup, and he wasn’t the silent type. But that day God used him, I think…to be a friend & bring comfort when I needed it most. The tears finally stopped and I was able to go back home.
This is a beautiful story. I’m glad he was there for you that day, and for all those people placed just right to help us through big, terrible moments with small acts demonstrating enormous grief.
Precisely.
As always: Beautiful.
Thank you, Miranda. Yours was beautiful, too.
So powerful. So beautiful. Thank you for this.
Thank you so much, Lisa.
Just stopping by as Susie sent me over from her blog party. This post is so touching. I live in NYC and my parents moved to Florida to retire. I don’t see them enough. This just made me want to call them. Beautiful.
http://www.blog.theregularguynyc.com
Phil
Hi Phil! Glad you stopped by. It’s easy to let time & life keep us busy isn’t it? I’m lucky. We moved recently so I am closer to my parents, but this post is definitely a reminder to take advantage of that, move those relationships to the top of my list!
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you did end up calling your parents.
Beautiful. True. The mother hurtng, and destroyed by alcohol abuse is still the first one in my head, but the other mother, the one I aspired to become is coming closer. I can reach that mother now, but need to work on ensuring that she surplants the other at the forefront of my mind.
Thank you both for this post. I am more than grateful.
Thank you so much for reading, and sharing the connections with your own heart and life. I am grateful.
I came from Susie’s party, and I’m so glad I did. A beautifully written homage to your mother. Superb. I hope you don’t mind if I stick around. . . .
Welcome, Mary! Glad you stopped by for Deb’s beautiful Tiny Spark
Thank you so much, Mary! It’s been a busy few days, so I haven’t seen Susie’s party yet, but I’m looking forward to doing so . . . even if I am late to that party.
Oh, girl. You MUST check it out. She dances Gangnam style in EPIC fashion
Very moving. I cannot even thing about losing my mom.
I hope you have many, many decades full of love still in store!
Memories are such powerful things, aren’t they? They can really influence the way we perceive and remember things/people/situations. A beautifully moving story, thank you for sharing.
They are. They don’t only impact the past, either, but how we feel about today, and tomorrow. Perspective hasn’t changed most of the external facets of my life, but sure has made the internal ones brighter. Thank you so much for reading and for the food for thought.
Christmas sucks these days. This year was better, having my wife home, but it still sucks. Because of any day of the year, Christmas was my mother’s day. SHE decorated the tree. SHE hand-painted and laid out the little Christmas village. SHE decked the house, SHE wrapped the presents, SHE cooked the big meal. It wasn’t Christmas, it was Mom’s Day.
But you know what? That’s okay. Really. Because it has helped me to remember that she was like that EVERY day. She always filled the house with delicious smells. She always had flowers around. And most of all, she was always welcoming. Always doing for others, always putting others’ needs in front of her.
So I shovel the church sidewalk, for free. And I clear the neighbor’s street-side parking spot, without being asked. Because I can’t cook worth a crap. (Well, I can, but that’s a disaster of a whole ‘nother category.) But I can give my time and effort, even just a little.
And when the world seems arrayed against me, when I’m freezing ’cause we’ve got no firewood, when I’m alone on my birthday, when Christmas sucks, it’s okay.
Because I can see her smile. And THAT is priceless – no matter how sore my muscles are.
What a beautiful post. You have a real talent for writing. I think people come to us when we are ready for them and it seemed like you were ready for what Shanon had to bring you. What a wonderful gift.
Isn’t it crazy how life works this way? It makes me hopeful because over and over again I see and hear of people like Deb, who despite the hurt or maybe because of it are given just that smallest sliver of good. We learn that the smallest sliver is enough for us and we learn to trust that good is coming.
It always amazes me how a thin scrap of a thing can make us feel closer to someone who’s gone. Thank you for giving us your story, Deborah.
I love Deb’s post and it made me think a lot of your Tiny Spark in that sometimes we need a reminder that a person can be more or better than we think they are. Choosing how to remember someone is more crucial to our well-being than anything.
This made my coffee salty with happy tears. It is strange how things happen at times just exactly right for us. Just exactly when we need them. I am so happy notMom and joyfulMom merged for you, exactly when you needed.
As always Deb, your words flow over my heart like butterfly wings awakening sparks.
I truly believe that people come into our lives when we need them, even if they aren’t meant to stay with us. I’m glad an angel in the form of Shannon was there to give you happy memories and photos, too.
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